


Tuna, no Crust

by kentucka



Category: Fast and the Furious (2001), NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NCIS catches another case related to L.A.'s street racer scene. But this time, they have Deeks as an LAPD liaison. He knows people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuna, no Crust

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [comment_fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/239653.html?thread=48969253#t48969253) for the following prompt:
> 
> _NCIS:LA/Fast & Furious, any + any, author’s choice_
> 
> Set mid-movie in TFATF and sometime in season 2 for NCIS:LA.  
> No spoilers, but knowledge of both probably required to understand all the allusions/jokes.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” G asked as soon as Sam had parked the Challenger across the street from a rundown garage with an attached -- well, calling it a market was probably taking it too far, but that’s what the washed-out sign read.

Sam casually checked the area, looking around the apparently quiet corner of Echo Park for any signs of lurking trouble.

On the other side of G’s phone line, Eric’s muted keyboard tapping and chair swiveling could be heard for a moment, triple-checking, before he replied, “Yes, your GPS matches the address Deeks sent us.”

G thumbed the phone off, and ducked his head to peer out Sam’s side window at the front door. “He says he’s sure.” When Sam raised an eyebrow at the doubt in G’s voice, G only shrugged and got out, waiting for Sam to face him over the roof. Two men sitting in a car tended to look suspicious, but two men standing next to a car conversing, for some reason, was considered less so. “So who are we?”

“Deeks warned us not to try to play them,” Sam reminded him, but G waved the suggestion of truthfulness away.

“You’re proposing we go in there, identify ourselves as federal agents, and politely ask for an illegal street racer to join our investigation against one of their own? That worked out so well last time.”

Sam pulled a face, and G grinned triumphantly.

*

The lunch menu didn’t offer much; it was mostly an assortment of sandwiches. “Tuna sounds good,” G ordered with an only slightly flirty smile.

The girl behind the bar just shook her head which made the straight black hair jump. “The tuna’s never good,” she said with an eye-roll and a wry twist of humor to her voice that hinted at an inside joke, but she turned around to fix it anyways.

“You hungry, Sam?”

His partner had finished the subtle tour of the shop and noted all the exits, now he sat down on the barstool next to G but kept his back to the bar, facing the front door. “Nah, plus I don’t eat tuna.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about the dolphins getting caught in the nets.”

For once, Sam refused to take the bait, too focused ( _always worried, you mother hen_ ) to let G’s needling distract him from their op. “I just can’t stand the smell.”

G straightened, catching Sam’s eye and then Sam’s nod towards the door connecting to the adjacent garage. So the girl manning the ‘market’ was not alone. “How did I not know that?” he asked, to keep the idle banter going.

Suddenly a guy appeared in the doorway, heavily muscled like Sam, head shorn just as bald, and his skin only a few shades lighter. Sweat rolled down his neck and soaked the undershirt; the coverall was tied around his hips. He was wiping his hands into an oil-stained rag while nonchalantly seizing up the customers.

When G was sure his partner had _become_ stone he’d tensed so much -- not that anyone but G would be able to tell -- the guy finally asked, “That black Challenger yours?”

Sam’s jaw actually worked for a second to loosen enough to speak. “Yeah.”

The girl pushed a plate at G. He smiled his thanks but she never noticed. “Hey Dom. What d’you want for lunch?”

_Dom._ Dominic Toretto, the owner, Eric had said. G filed the information away, and heartily bit into his sandwich. Despite everyone’s noise to the contrary, the tuna wasn’t half bad.

“Roast beef. A turkey club for Brian -- yeah,” and for a second Toretto grinned, transforming him from a thug into a teddybear, “I know. Recited some bullshit about nutrient variety from one of your books.”

The girl behind the counter blinked her shock-wide eyes back to normal and got to work with a mumbled, “At least they’re good for something.”

“I sure hope that black sweetheart outside will get looked at by someone who knows what he’s doing, and soon,” another voice came drifting in from the garage. The rest of the man followed a second later: an inch taller but leaner than Toretto, blonde and tanned (but pale in comparison) and extroverted in the way his limbs moved loosely, every bit the exact opposite of Toretto. Brian, G assumed. Just the person they’d been looking for.

But Sam’s mood didn’t lighten up in the least - if anything it blackened. “Why?” he demanded, bringing Brian up short at the unexpected outburst.

If Deeks hadn’t already told them that an old friend from the academy named Brian had gone undercover here, Brian’s lightening-quick assessment of the situation (threat-level of opponents, available weapons, backup, civilians, exit strategies) might have tipped them off. This sort of routine and coolness meant training.

Brian glanced at Toretto first (G couldn’t quite figure out what he was looking for - permission to speak? an ally in case Sam attacked?), but then held Sam’s gaze steadily as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “She looks a bit heavy in the front. I’d check the suspension.”

Now Toretto looked to Brian briefly, speculative, and G really wondered where these two stood. Given Toretto’s history, his suspected involvement in truck hijackings, the known illegal street racing, and based on other standoff-ish character traits he’d already displayed, G expected him to be rather paranoid. Worming one’s way into such a man’s inner circle was either long and carefully planned, or a daring feat of recklessness and luck.

“Did you have any work done lately?” Toretto prompted.

G almost laughed and choked on a bit of bread. He knew the answer to that question, remembered Hetty’s sadly temporary improvements to the Challenger, and that Sam had had it at a shop again soon after. It hadn’t been rocket science to figure out why.

“Upgraded the engine.” It sounded aloof, matter-of-fact, but G knew that Sam knew that he’d just opened himself up to more ribbing later. And oh, G would enjoy every second in which Sam twisted uncomfortably in his seat and blushed scarlet and tried to deny his vain motivation, to make excuses of why it was necessary and only to the benefit of the job.

He finished his sandwich, allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk, and followed the men into the garage. There Brian offered to check the car for free and Toretto pointed out the car hoist where Sam should put the Challenger and G watched his partner’s back.

So far, they hadn’t had to lie once, or to flash their badges, but had managed to establish contact. And soon one of them would catch Brian alone to ask for a favor.

*** end ***


End file.
